Just within the gates the murmuring thousands herded on the “People’s Forum,” the worn bit of grass where for many years proletariats—socialists, anarchists, the advocates of all new philosophies and ’isms—have been accustomed to make their Sunday stands. To land among these was impossible. To fly along the ground just above them was perilous. The man who had hastened into the park from the motor car was in plain sight. He was already in company with two other men who had bands of white on their arms.
“What are you goin’ to do?” called Alan through the tube. “We can’t land here. And you’ll kill someone if you drop the bundle.”
Ned was at his wit’s end. Before he could reply, keeping his eye on the two white-marked men and the one who had used the glass—who seemed to be in charge—he noted that the latter was waving his arms upward and pointing to the gate.
“Keep her up,” Ned called back—Roy repeating the message. “Take another turn or two.”
The three men in the park now made their way quickly to the arch and all sprang into the waiting motor, their leader meanwhile pointing west toward Bayswater Road. With only the loss of a few moments the car turned onto Hyde Park Terrace. Here, in the torrid noonday sun, the hordes coming from the park were keeping in the shade of the trees. The wide, smooth terrace stretched away almost free of vehicles.
“Get over ’em and ahead,” shouted Ned—for by this time all were watching the motor and its occupants. “The street’s wide enough. Drop down and pass ’em. Get as close as you can.”
As if out for a leisurely tour of the park the gray car moved west on the terrace. With one more wide swing Alan brought the Flyer to the west and then, as if on a toboggan, the condorlike airship slid directly toward the motor. When it seemed as if the aeroplane would crash into the automobile there was an upward swerve. As if balanced in the air the Flyer hung in equilibrium an instant. Those in the motor sprang aside as if to escape the impending blow from the suspended bundle. At that instant the black package dropped directly into the car.
Ned’s shout of “All right!” was not needed. The checked airship had to go ahead. And before the order reached Alan the Flyer had hurled herself forward again. Barely averting a cab, whose driver was too dazed even to hurl at them a cabby’s imprecations, the aeroplane skimmed skyward.
“Up!” shouted Roy through the tube, “Up!”
Knowing then that the precious matrices had been delivered, for better or for worse, Alan threw his wheel over and while Ned lay on the floor watching the astounded occupants of the motor, the airship began climbing skyward with straining planes, the engines at full speed again. Not a word had been spoken to the men in the automobile. None was necessary.